


made of mountains, metal, whiskey and waves

by scarecrowes



Series: superpowers AU [3]
Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2012-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-15 17:11:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarecrowes/pseuds/scarecrowes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Telepathy leaves impressions of people, that stick to Meyer's skin and crawl under it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	made of mountains, metal, whiskey and waves

Even on days when everything’s too loud, barreling on his thoughts with a thousand foreign ones, he can pick the thread of Charlie’s mind out of a crowd within moments. 

He tried to explain it once when he was younger, to his mother, who urged him to keep his little oddity a secret. Or to Jake who blinked and stared and didn’t understand either way. He tried to explain how a person’s mind had a certain feeling, a certain tangible piece that he could very nearly grasp in his hands. That his mother was blue, a pale kind, and his father was absent. How one of the neighbors felt like a heat wave, another the almost-smell of lavender.

Of course, that was before. Before he met Benny, who starts fires with a finger snap. Or Charlie and the way he can bolt across a room before you even see him, the way the tap of his hand can make a surface vibrate when he’s not paying enough attention, before he learned to keep still. 

Rothstein, who can change the balance of fortune with a thought. 

And Rothstein - he’s a library. Vanillin, information, tomes of want and hurt buried under numbers.

Benny comes with the smell of ozone and a loud sensation of almost-sound, one that Meyer can’t quite bring himself to touch. 

And then there’s Charlie, who finds him soaking blood out of his shirt in the early hours after Masseria’s boys caught up with him and Benny. Charlie who’s in the doorway in all of a second and Meyer isn’t startled, because he heard him half a block away. 

_What happened where was I are you okay_

It was easy to learn Italian when Charlie’s thoughts backpedal into it the minute he starts to hurt. 

Easy, too, to cut through the bullshit and bravado when just underneath it, his partner’s heart is hot and bare. 

_are you okay are you okay I’ll fucking kill them_

I’m fine, Charlie. 

Meyer remembers, quietly, that Charlie hates when he does that. And like always, it shows in how his shoulders lock up, reflected in the mirror when Meyer glances to him again. 

Charlie scowls.

“Get outta my head.”

_stupid mindreading hebe_

“Don’t call me names, Charlie.” 

And then Charlie’s just behind him and the door slams shut with the force of the move. 

_Don’t tell me what to do._

Whatever it is that gave Charlie his gift, it makes him radiate heat. It makes him miserable to lay close to in the summer. 

But with his shirt soaking white-pink-red in the sink, Meyer’s thankful for it, now. 

“You’re gonna ruin the silk you leave it in there too long.” 

“Duly noted.” 

Charlie, he’s harder to place. On some days slipping through his thoughts leaves Meyer with the memory of home gummed to the back of his throat - not  _his_  home, but the feel of one, hot food and a warm hand on your shoulder, the nervous stomachache that pride leaves. 

Other times it’s like slamming his head into a brick wall, too much noise and ugly ache that leaves him reeling and drained. 

Tonight, tonight it’s the curl of smoke on his tongue, the heat of Charlie’s palms on his waist when Charlie’s not touching him yet. It’s that enveloping feeling, almost-intimacy, with all the undercurrent of Charlie’s panic and vague pieces of violence that don’t quite form the thought  _I’ll fucking kill him for you._

But they almost do. 

Meyer turns and offers a tired smile. 

“It’s fine, Charlie.” 

We’ll be fine. 

Dragged into bed, Charlie’s all hunger, refusal to let go. He floods Meyer’s head with wet-sticky thoughts and heavy wine taste, tangled limbs, too much heat. Meyer pushes it back at him so he feels it too, muffled through two of them but still there with the possessive beat of Charlie’s pulse,  _mine, mine, mine._

“…fuck.. _Christ_..” 

It makes Charlie shake, when he does that. Every time. 

“Warn a guy next time, huh?” 

Curled up after with the angle of Charlie’s hipbones digging into his side and the blade of Charlie’s spite softened into nothing at all, Meyer traces the shaking inside if his partner’s thigh, traces the little part of his mind that’s still awake.

“Charlie.”

“..mmn?” 

He wants to say he loves him. But that isn’t quite right. He tastes peppermint, kisses Charlie’s mouth again and it’s tobacco.

Meyer settles quietly on the notion that Charlie will be whatever locks in place between them at the time. 

And Charlie growls against his mouth. 

“Go to sleep, idiot.” 

In the morning it’s coffee, black, and Benny will show up with scorch marks in his clothes and a naked grin setting his teeth, the rattle in his head a coiled snake. 

And in six years, Masseria will be dead. 

 


End file.
